Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  "We have watched after him," Claude said, after awhile.

  "I know you have. I know what you both have done, and believe me, I am grateful. But, no, I will not impose myself on him."

  "Will you work with us?"Alexander asked. "There is room in U.N.C.L.E."

  "No. There is only one job I am interested in—and that would be interviewing recruits for the Foreign Department. I would instruct them on what it means to live, "Antonio said, putting down his glass, "before they are shriveled corpses that don't know enough to lie down and die."

  Tuesday, November 2, 1965

  Baffin Island, NWT

  4:00 p.m.

  From the depths of his down-filled sleeping bag, Napoleon Solo drifted to semi-consciousness feeling exquisitely warm and comfortable. The air touching his face was cold, but from the neck down, he was definitely toasty. Stretched out on his left side, he sighed into the pillow, exhaling slowly, not wanting to disturb the moment. His right arm drew the pliant body beside him closer to his own, his left hand encircled her head on the pillow, playing with her long hair. He could feel her soft breath on his chest, sending shivers rippling across his body.

  Reluctantly he opened his eyes a crack, then shut them. Oh, right. The tent. They were... somewhere... doing something or other. He could hear the wind outside, wrestling with the ropes, but the deep metal spikes holding it all in place in the permafrost were securely anchored. They were north... somewhere. It was dark outside and part of his brain wakened long enough to feed in the information that this far north, at this time of year, the sun only rose above the horizon for a few hours.

  He heard the snick of a flashlight turning on. With another long sigh, he opened his eyes, blinking them clear to see April smiling across the pillow at him. Her hair was loose, framing her face; his fingers entwined a few strands, then he cupped his hand around her head and, impulsively, pulled her closer into a kiss.

  She leaned into it for a moment, then drew back, her sparkling eyes fixed on him, her smile threatening to take over her whole face. "Napoleon, are you awake?" Her hand appeared from beneath their zipped-together sleeping bags and tweaked his nose, the movement knocking over the small flashlight and sending the shelter back into darkness.

  "Hmm." His eyes closed and he took a slow deep breath, feeling her stir beside him, shifting and nestling closer. An amazing woman. The lady had class; they were north of the Arctic Circle and she was still wearing that perfume that drove him crazy. He felt himself floating, sleep demanding his return. His left hand continued to play with her hair while his right hand leisurely massaged the smooth bare back, exploring the lean muscles and slim waist.

  "Napoleon? You better wake up." Her voice was low, near his ear, on the verge of laughter.

  "Hmm?" His fingers worked slowly up the long spine. "Why?"

  "Wake up."

  He heard her adjust the flashlight and opened his eyes again. In a deep, cracking, morning voice he answered softly, "Don't want to wake up, April. I had a wonderful dream. Care to repeat it with me?" he purred suggestively.

  "Later. When we're alone." She was propped up on one elbow, grinning at him.

  Whether it was the slight emphasis on the word alone, or the sudden realization that April Dancer, despite her obvious talents, could not physically be smiling down at him and yet have her cheek pressed against his chest—but in one brief second, Napoleon Solo came completely and utterly awake. He lay staring up at her, frozen in place, his eyes wide and frantic as he racked his sleep-fogged brain for the illusive answer that seemed to be haunting his mind on the edge of madness, infuriatingly out of reach.

  "We have company, Napoleon. Remember?" April's face took on a hue of amused concern as she drew back the edge of the sleeping bag and heavy caribou fur, and motioned for him to look beneath.

  With a growing sinking feeling, Napoleon wrenched his eyes from April to the revealed body he held tight against him. Blond. Illya. The embarrassed horror he had anticipated shifted and vanished as the rest of the day's nightmare flooded his consciousness.

  "Don't move. Don't wake him," April said quickly as he gasped at the surge of emotions racing through his body. "Gentle. Don't jostle him. That's it... Must have been some dream, Napoleon. You'll have to tell me about it... Tilt him this way, toward me... on his back... Keep the blankets down so he won't get a draft."

  "Is he okay?" Napoleon whispered, his eyes closing in apprehension of her answer. "He's breathing." His shaking hand rested lightly on his partner's chest.

  "We were incredibly lucky. I checked him again about fifteen minutes ago; he sounds a little congested, but other than that... I took his temperature and counted ten fingers and ten toes. They're all there. No sign of frostbite, either. His hands and feet were well protected. The ice water got in his parka at the neckline and froze, which actually protected him—It's okay, Napoleon. He's okay. Nothing fell off—everything's there." She grinned again, wiggling her eyebrows. "I checked." As she spoke, she carefully stroked Illya's face, but there was little, if any, response to her light touch. The Russian was sleeping soundly.

  "Are you okay, Napoleon?" April asked softly, turning her attention to him and he wondered if she could hear his wildly pounding heart.

  "Yeah. I'm fine," he answered, his voice husky. Illya was warmer and sleeping, alive.

  "He's going to be fine," April repeated, her voice softening.

  Napoleon nodded mutely, opening his eyes in surprise as her lips teased his, then withdrew.

  "Thanks. For everything... Especially for what you did in my dream," he said with a short laugh, then sobered quickly. "And for being here. For this." He looked down at his partner, the pale face still blotchy from the cold. "I may get by on my luck, but I've always maintained that Illya's part cat. And I think he just used up another life." Napoleon laughed again, but he lacked the energy to carry it off and it choked in his throat. He rested his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes wearily, not caring any longer if she saw it. He was just so damned tired.

  April leaned away and a smile stole over her face; her graceful fingers brushed the comers of his eyes and touched the glistening tears gathered there. "So the great Napoleon Solo has a heart." Again she bent over him, careful not to jostle the man nestled between them, her lips lightly kissing the damp eyelids, across his cheeks, over the unshaven chin to his waiting mouth. "It looks good on you," she whispered a few moments later. "Kinda sexy... Ah, let's deal with Illya, then you can tell me more about your dream."

  He opened his eyes, startled by her words, but she had already pulled away, her back to him as she slipped on her long thermal underwear. She turned up the heat and set some water to boil on the propane stove, softly humming a tune he couldn't quite make out.

  Arching his neck on the pillow, Napoleon watched her move around their cramped quarters, his dark eyes catching each action as she checked the water, or paged through the first aid manual, or checked to see if their clothes were drying. With his ear pressed against the pillow, he could hear the echo of his own heartbeat, drowning out her faint humming. His breathing had become shallow and rapid.

  Mesmerized, he watched as she stretched her dancer's lean body, unselfconscious about his presence there. She leaned over and stared at the water in the pot, a smile resting briefly on her face as the first bubbles began to form on the sides, then, sitting back on her heels, she produced a hairbrush from her knapsack and began to brush out her tangled auburn tresses.

  He couldn't move, his senses capturing the moment, imprinting it on his memory.

  The water bubbled furiously and she switched off the single burner. From their supplies, she mixed a few different powders with the boiling water and stirred it, then reached for her brush again and continued the circular movements he was unable to look away from.

  Illya shivered in his arms and April looked their way, her gaze going first to the Russian, then sliding over to rest on Napoleon. "You're quiet." It was almost a question, definitely an invita
tion.

  Napoleon shrugged, trying to smile, but not succeeding. "What are you cooking up?" he asked, finally.

  "The book says we should feed him a hot sweet drink as soon as he can manage it, so I made some cocoa. It's just cooling a bit. Can you sit him up?"

  "Sure." He twisted in the blankets, sitting himself, and then gently hauling Illya's body around to sit in front of him, so the dozing man was leaning back against his chest. April reached into the sleeping bag and repositioned a pillow on Napoleon's lap so he wouldn't have to hold Illya upright, then she draped the two in blankets until only their heads stuck out.

  She smiled gently at the Russian when, at her touch on his cheek, his eyes opened and almost focused on her, but he only squinted back at her irritably. "Poor guy. He looks pretty rough." April brushed the long bangs away from her colleague's forehead.

  Napoleon chuckled. "No one looks as pathetic as Illya when he's injured or sick." He wrapped his arms around his partner's chest, feeling the reassuring flutter of a heartbeat beneath his palm. How many times...

  "What is it?" her voice broke into his musings a few minutes later.

  "Hmm?" He looked up to see April staring at him thoughtfully.

  "You've been... elsewhere. Were you remembering something?" With the mug of hot chocolate in her hand, she came and sat beside him on the mat, their hips touching through the blankets.

  It was curiously distracting.

  "Napoleon?" She took a spoonful of the hot drink and fed Illya, watching to make sure he swallowed it before her eyes flicked back to the Chief Enforcement Agent. "Napoleon?"

  "Uh... Yes, I suppose you could say I was remembering..." He'd never talked about it before. Wasn't sure he wanted to now, but a voice inside prodded him on. He started to speak, but his voice cracked, irritatingly. He cleared his throat and started again. "Early in our partnership, Illya was shot, through the lung and out the other side. I sat beside him with my hands on either side of his body, sealing the holes while we waited for the ambulance. It was the... strangest sensation, April. To literally be holding someone together. I could feel each beat of his heart, feel the blood—his life—seeping between my fingers. To be that responsible for keeping someone alive..." He was surprised to find himself shaking.

  She looked away from him for a moment, fed Illya another spoonful, then looked back. "That must be how Illya felt on the railroad bridge," she said softly. "Can you imagine what it was like for him to make a wild dive for you just as you went over, catching you only by the nape of your jacket with one hand? And then hanging on to you in the freezing rain while the river raged below, not knowing if you were dead or alive? The way he was positioned, there was no way Illya could have pulled you up, but to loosen his grip meant your certain death. By the time we arrived on the scene, and had hoisted you to safety, Illya had to be carried to the van, his shoulder dislocated and his body cramped from his wait. Did you know he's had nightmares about it?" she asked, holding the half-empty mug now to Kuryakin's lips and encouraging the groggy man to finish it.

  "He told you that?"

  "When Mark was kidnaped last week. I was upset that I was so upset, I guess. I didn't think it was very professional of me. Here I was trying to convince everyone that I could handle the job as well as any man, and I had this bout of tears. Illya told me then, and it helped."

  Napoleon nodded pensively, then sighed, closing his eyes. "I came close to losing him this time, didn't I? I don't know if I can keep doing this."

  "But you didn't lose him. You didn't let him go."

  There was something in her voice that made him look up at her. Her eyes were full of unshed tears as she took a face cloth, dipped it in the warm water, and carefully wiped his partner's face.

  "Mark's a lucky guy," Napoleon said softly.

  "How so?"

  "You've handled all of this," he gestured at their surroundings with his chin, "with an ease I admire. I'm just sitting here and letting you do all the work."

  "Oh, but our positions would be reversed if it was Mark, not Illya."

  "True enough..." He watched her sterilize the thermometer again. "You're not the young agent I took along on her first Section Two assignment six months ago. Whatever happened to her? The bratty, self-centered, know-it-all?"

  "She grew up. She had to. They gave her a partner to take care of."

  April's eyes met his and he tried to read what was there, just beneath the surface. He wasn't quite prepared for her next words.

  "Tell me about your dream, Napoleon."

  His face reddened and he looked away.

  "From your expression and actions when you were waking up, I'd say you enjoyed yourself... or someone else."

  "Uh, let's just say, Mark would have to defend your honor and leave it at that."

  "Leave Mark out of it. I can defend my own honor—" she leaned forward and kissed him, her lips barely touching his, "—if the reason presented itself." She drew away and looked down at Illya; Napoleon was suddenly aware that the universe consisted of three people, not two. "Can you turn him a bit, Napoleon? I want to take his temperature."

  The abrupt change of topic left Napoleon speechless, but he accepted her help in getting Illya onto his side. "Why can't you take his temperature orally?"

  "The book says we need to monitor his core temperature."

  Napoleon shrugged. Who was he to argue with the manual? Besides, for now, Illya obviously had no idea where he was or what was happening. The slight body pressed up against Napoleon's had no energy to fight what April was doing, but as the thermometer entered his body, he gave a low cry of apprehension that Napoleon interpreted clearly. Whether or not Illya was conscious enough to remember, his body remembered being held immobile and violated.

  "Shh. It's okay," he whispered, his arms closing around the shivering shoulders securely without trapping his partner. "You're safe. No one's hurting you. It's just April taking your temperature." Illya batted at April behind him and Napoleon caught the cold hand and tucked it under his arm, shivering himself as it leeched his warmth.

  "The book said he'd be cranky when he started coming out of it," April mused.

  Napoleon said nothing for a moment, gathering his scattered thoughts, then he realized what she had said and laughed. "This isn't cranky. You haven't experienced cranky until you've seen him first thing in the morning before his breakfast and coffee. This is nothing—I'll let you know when he's cranky."

  April withdrew the thermometer and they maneuvered Illya into Mark's extra pair of longjohns. Napoleon was able to wake him up enough to see to his toiletries, then Illya allowed them to bed him down near the heater, in a single sleeping bag covered in caribou furs.

  His only rational words were to complain that his hands and feet were on fire. He fell asleep as April once more rubbed her fragrant hand lotion on his chapped reddened fingers, his nose twitching in dismay at the scented aroma.

  "I used to love that perfume," Napoleon muttered, eating some rations as April unzipped the side of Illya's sleeping bag, then reached in to apply the rich lotion to the Russian's bare feet. "I'm never going to trust it again. I won't know if it's you or if he just smells like you." Napoleon watched Illya snuggle down into the warmth of the sleeping bag, his face and head disappearing beneath the heavy caribou furs April layered on top of him. "What did his temperature read?"

  "Almost 98°—much better than the 89° when we brought him here... Napoleon, why should it matter if it's me?" she added, without meeting his startled look.

  It was cooling down in the tent. The wind had picked up again. Napoleon shivered, still half-naked beneath the covers, and he huddled back into the double sleeping bag. "If we don't watch it, we're going to end up hypothermic. Care to join me?" he asked casually.

  The female agent turned down the lantern and moved over to him, her touch on his cheek affectionate rather than sensual, and he wondered fleetingly if he had misunderstood her. She slipped in beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, o
ne hand slowly traveling over his chest. "I want to stay awake so I can check Illya's temperature in half an hour. He may not be strong enough to keep the heat he has... I figure the earliest Mark will be here is in about five hours, if he makes all his connections. So... can you tell if Illya's asleep yet?"

  Napoleon gently pulled her closer, his lips touching her hair, her forehead, reveling in the delightfully different feel of her body next to his. Now this felt right. Her question slowly registered on his mind and he reluctantly paused to listen briefly. "He's asleep." He rolled slightly, drawing her on top of him, claiming her mouth and groaning as she pulled away.

  "You barely listened; how can you tell?" she demanded.

  "I have been his partner for two years; I have shared everything from hotel rooms to hospital rooms to underground cells with him. From his breathing, I can tell if he's sleeping, unconsciousness, in a drunken stupor, drugged senseless, or if he's faking any combination of the above. He's sleeping."

  "In that case," she bit teasingly on his earlobe, "show me your dream."

  "Are you sure?" It wasn't that he hadn't entertained the notion of bedding April Dancer before, but she had never shown an interest beyond their playful flirting. "Why now?" He twisted his head away to get a better look at her in the faint orange light generated from the heating unit. "Why here?"

  Her hands came to rest on either side of his face, her eyes searching his. "In that motel room, on my first assignment, I saw a man I thought I could care about, a man with a heart and soul. That picture, that image has stayed in my mind: you sitting on the edge of Illya's bed, holding him when he was in pain. But I haven't seen that man for a long, long time. I thought maybe you had buried him away somewhere."